Date: Thu, 27 May 1999 00:18:47 -0400
From: Katherine Becker
To: SABMAG
Subject: Maine
On the Sabmag map, zimbob's entry says: "If you can get here, you are
welcome." I have almost four full days off, with this holiday weekend, so
I'm planning to take him up on that. Anyone want to ride to Maine this
weekend? I'm planning to leave from the Detroit area around lunchtime
Friday. Travelling by way of Toronto and Montreal, I expect to reach
zimhome, in Maine, late Saturday afternoon. I need to be back in Michigan
in time for work next Tuesday morning. Anyone want to hook up with me for
all or part of this expedition?

Friday morning I was so excited about my trip that I woke up at 7am. This is a full hour earlier than I get up on days when I go to work! Of course I had only gotten about half packed the night before, and I didn't want to face Detroit rush hour, so I took my time getting ready. I put the bike up on the center stand, and checked the tire pressure. The rear tire was a little low, so I decided to stop on my way out of town and pump it up a bit. I loaded the luggage, warmed the bike up, and checked the oil. I added about 1/4 quart to bring it exactly to the fill line. I cleaned the bugs from my windshield and my face shield, and rolled out of my driveway around 9:30.

Neither of the gas stations between my house and the freeway have air pumps, so I rode about ten miles down the freeway to a station that did have one, and added a little air to each tire. As I was putting my helmet back on, a cager rolled up to the air pump, got out of his car, and began cursing furiously. I looked to see what was going on, and saw that the entire side of his tire had blown out and was hanging in ribbons. Shudder! Poor guy.

As I pulled out of the gas station I was doing a mental inventory of the things I'd packed, and I realized that I had forgotten to bring the bag of items from my bathroom. I could buy a toothbrush and toothpaste somewhere along the way, but I also have a bite splint , because I grind my teeth. Three nights without it would put me in a world of hurt. So, back to my house I went.

I left my house for the second time at around 10:30. Traffic was light as I crossed the Ambassador Bridge into Canada. No problems there. I was starting to get hungry so I stopped in Windsor for an early lunch. Then I hit the 401, slabbing it east across Ontario. The land in this southernmost part of Canada looks just like the land on the Ohio side of Lake Erie, it's vast and flat, wide farms fields interspersed with wood lots. The settlement pattern is a little different, though. In Ohio, there are clusters of stores and gas stations by the freeway every five or ten miles, and there are more houses out in the country, between the towns. The Canadians prefer a different style; the towns are far denser, with lots of town houses and apartment buildings, and the countryside is emptier. There are fewer freeway exits, and very few of these have gas or fast food. The 401 is set up like a toll road, even though it doesn't have any tolls; every 50 or 60 kilometers there is a service plaza, which offers a gas station and two or three fast food choices, all without ever leaving the expressway system.

I reached the Toronto metro area at around 2:30 p.m. This was not good. Rush hour was already beginning to stir. It would only get worse for the next five hours or so, so there was no point in waiting it out. I gritted my teeth and plunged into the fray. The western half wasn't too bad; it was early enough that the Mississauga office drones were still chained to their desks, and I was heading in, not out. I only had to come to a full stop once, and that was only for ten or fifteen seconds; the rest of the time the traffic moved along at 60 or 70 kph, slow but steady.

Once I crossed Yonge Street and was officially on my way out of the city, it got much worse. I entered a construction zone, with that grooved pavement we all love so well, and the traffic began to move more and more slowly, until I could no longer get out of first gear. My feet were spending more time on the ground than on the pegs, creeping along at less than 10 kph. It was so hot, baking under the sun on a hot bike in my leather, watching the temp indicator creep higher and higher. As the temp reached the last bar before the red zone, I decided that I was overheating and that the bike probably wasn't far behind. I pulled off onto the shoulder, stopped the bike, and took off my helmet and jacket. I sat on the barrier wall and watched the traffic move by at a walking pace, for fifteen minutes or so, and drank a coke I had stored in my tank bag earlier. People kept rolling their windows down and asking if I was all right, and I kept saying, fine, fine, don't worry.

Soon my coke bottle was empty and I was too bored to stay any longer, so I suited back up and made my way back out into the fray. The bike's temp reading had dropped to three bars, which made me feel better. I crept along for another three or four kilometers, over the next ten or twenty minutes. The lanes kept changing, one would be faster, then another. A rider in a red helmet and stitch, riding a red Interceptor, overtook me riding in the next lane over, and I jumped in behind him momentarily, then back into the right lane as it seemed to be moving better. The lanes shifted back and forth some more, he was ahead, then I was, and I moved over to the right hand side to share the lane with him. He pulled in next to me, and we traveled for five or ten minutes together. My temp indicator went back up to the last block before the red line, and I decided to pull off again. The Interceptor rider stopped with me. We chatted for a few minutes. His name was Kevin; he was 45 minutes late for an appointment, due to the traffic snafu. He didn't stop long, but instead put his helmet back on and started right back into traffic. I didn't see him again. Once my temp indicator had dropped back down to three bars, I continued. Ten minutes later the traffic cleared, and I was on my way again. I lost at least an hour to that traffic jam. It was around 5:30 as I left the Toronto metro area.

East of Toronto, the terrain gets more interesting. There are rocky hillsides and forests. Even though it isn't mountainous, many of the trees have a bonsai look, small and scraggly. This is not a luxurious forest with bountiful spreading trees; it's a hardscrabble forest with crooked little windblown trees. I'm not sure if this is the aftereffect of logging, the climate, the soil, or what? Probably a combination of many factors.

Around 6:30 I started looking for dinner. Suddenly my left side cover peeled loose from the front anchor point and hit the inside of my leg. I'd duct taped this cover in place the week before, when one of the rubber grommets disintegrated. The duct tape had lost its grip. I held it on with my knee, and thought I would replace the duct tape when I stopped. A mile or so later, the 401 went through the edges of a town, and I saw a small billboard: Harley Davidson / Honda / Yamaha / Suzuki etc. Obviously I was meant to stop in this town. I took that exit, and found the Honda dealer. They were open, and they had the grommet in stock. CA$2.65, that's less than US$2, I could live with that. I replaced it in their parking lot. Of course visiting a bike shop reminded me that I wished for highway pegs. I asked, but all they had were genuine Harley chrome highway pegs for $135. Hah! No way. I grabbed a quick dinner and jumped back on the road.

At dusk on the 401, I ran into a veritable rainstorm of bugs! I had cleaned my helmet at a gas stop, and twenty minutes later I could barely see. The sound of the bugs hitting me was like rain, and some of the squishier ones were actually dripping on my face shield, yuck! Also, it was becoming apparent that I would not reach my destination, south of Burlington VT, until after midnight. I stopped to clean my face shield, and called to let Mary Ellen (a.k.a. MEW) know where I was and how late I'd be. She said if I got there really late, I could just come in the back door and crash on the couch. Her husband came to the phone to give the directions. I wrote them down. They were scary, and involved many rights and lefts, up and down hills, on private dirt roads and tracks.

I entered Quebec about an hour after dark. Carole Dugas had made a big point on the Sabmag list of how the cops there wouldn't tolerate any speeding, and how they'd make you pay fines on the spot. I didn't have that kind of money on me, and I didn't relish the idea of a traffic stop in a place where my inability to speak French might be held against me. I decided to be on my best behavior, no speeding. Besides, I needed the extra time to decipher the road signs. The locals didn't seem deterred by Carole's fierce law enforcement. I've never seen a higher percentage of aggressive and hooligan drivers, as I saw that evening in the Montreal area. The average cage speed seemed to be twice the posted limit. Yikes!

South of Montreal the land flattened and changed from suburban to rural. Under the full moon, it looked disturbingly similar to Ohio, the one difference being that every small hamlet seemed to have a neon-lit bar advertising topless dancers. I found the flatness of the land surprising. I had expected the small hills to become gradually larger, instead of flattening to nothing. I was also surprised at how far it was from Montreal to Vermont.

I finally reached the US border, which was deserted. The guard at the one open booth put down his newspaper as I pulled up. He asked me the usual three questions, citizenship, how long was I in Canada, and was I bringing anything back? Then he passed me through. I asked if he knew of a campground around there, and he seemed grateful that I was willing to continue to talk. He didn't know of any campgrounds, but he offered me use of the post's bathroom. He suggested that the visitor center just past the post would remain closed until 7am and I could probably get away with camping there if I packed up early. I wandered over there and checked it out. I almost stayed, but there were no spots to pitch my tent that were both level and inconspicuous, and no place to park my bike where it wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb. Besides, it was already past midnight and I wanted to be able to sleep a bit later than 7am. I rode on.

I stopped for gas in Swanton, and asked the gas station attendant if he knew of any campgrounds. He didn't, but he suggested that there was a city park down by the river where I might be able to get away with camping. I said I didn't want to be moved on by the police, and he said it was late enough at night that it shouldn't be a problem. I rode on into Swanton, and found the park; it was gated shut for the night.

The map showed several state parks along Lake Champlain. I rode to the closest one, Kamp Kill Kare, down a narrow little lakeside road past many vacation cabins. I tried not to rev the engine any louder than I had to; I didn't want to wake anyone. Kamp Kill Kare was gated shut, with a sign saying it was closed until summer. I guess in Vermont, Memorial Day weekend doesn't signify the start of the summer season for the parks.

I rode away from the lake and into the town of St Albans. In St Albans, there were many open bars, and the streets were lively with drunken couples staggering back and forth, watched by three or four cop cars. I stopped and asked one of the cops if he knew of an open campground. He didn't. I said I didn't want to camp in a bad spot and get moved on. He said he wouldn't move anyone on, but that this neighborhood had twelve open bars. (Duh, I wouldn't have camped anywhere near there!) He suggested one of the motels on the edge of town. I rode out of town past the motels. They both had full parking lots, and neither had lights on in their offices. I hate motels, and besides I couldn't tell if they had rooms or how much the rooms might cost. I decided not to wake the motel managers to ask. I continued south on Route 7. It was now close to 2am, and I was pretty tired.

About ten miles outside of St. Albans, I came to an isolated school. Hmm... I pulled in and did a circle of their parking lots. There were no houses nearby, and no cars in this lot. I found a corner where a tree shaded the lot from the overhead lights, and where I could put my tent in the same dark spot. This would do. I parked the bike and pitched my tent.

I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard a car come roaring into the parking lot. Great. Who would it be, accelerating up the drive in this aggressive fashion? Drunks, or cops? I sat up and braced myself for the confrontation. I watched the car approach; it was an old one. Ruh-roh, drunks! The car roared towards me. Just before the lights got to my tent, the car turned, and screeched up to the front door of the school. I heard the car door open and close, and then they roared off back down the driveway, and back out into the night. The place they'd stopped was well lit, and they hadn't dropped anyone off. Maybe they didn't even see me. In the morning I noticed a mailbox where the car had stopped; maybe they were dropping off something or picking up mail.

Legend has it that roosters crow in the morning, but the farm just across the field from this school had one that crowed all night long. They need to make some chicken soup over there. I tossed and turned; the ground was cold. I laid my chaps out on the ground beneath me, and that helped insulate me from the cold of the ground. I finally drifted off to sleep.

I woke to bright sunshine and the rooster crowing. I rolled over and dozed a little more, but I started hearing an increasing amount of traffic on the road out front, including some motorcycles. I thought it might be getting late, so I got up. I desperately needed a bathroom. I started trying to strike camp as quick as I could so I could go hunt for a bathroom somewhere, but I quickly realized that I wasn't going to make it. I considered leaving the tent up, riding off to look for a bathroom, and coming back, but since this wasn't a proper campsite I didn't want to leave my stuff unattended. I wandered around back of the school and found a spot that couldn't be seen from any nearby buildings, and I peed on the ground. Yuck, what a nuisance. If I'm going to do much more of this kind of camping, I should get one of the pee tubes Airyn reviewed on the women's long distance riding list.

Once I'd packed up and gotten on the bike, I looked at the clock. It was just after 7am. I might as well have camped at the visitor center by the border, sheesh!

Vermont was beautiful in the light of the day. Gorgeous green hillsides, (duh, they match the state's name) blue sky, fluffy white clouds. I stopped for a coke and a donut at a little gas station. They had about thirty kinds of coffee there. I was amazed that they could keep up with it. There were three clerks busily kvetching about how the night clerk didn't empty the trash on her shift. I asked the cashier if they had deposit bottles in Vermont, and she said yes but they didn't have it here. Huh? Which is it? She was too busy with her other conversation to elaborate, and I didn't feel like forcing her to pay attention, so I went back outside. I was only half done drinking it anyways. I packed the half-full bottle in my tank bag.

MEW was staying with her in-laws at their cabin near Cedar Beach, Vermont. I followed the directions down the Ferry Road, to her neighborhood. One of the houses on that road had a giant teddy bear sitting on an ancient motorcycle, posed in the field outside. The directions led me past the ferry landing and this way and that along ever tinier gravel roads and driveways. I was very glad I hadn't tried to negotiate this path in the dark the night before. I finally came to a spot where I didn't dare go any further, for fear I wouldn't be able to turn around without dumping the bike. I parked and walked up the hill to the cabin. MEW was there, and we had an excellent visit. We gossiped about our mutual friends, and she introduced me to her stepdaughter, who they've decided takes after her. We discussed how the stepdaughter could best dye her hair a brilliant purple.

Back on the road, I made my way back north to US 2, and turned east. The sun was warm but not hot, and US 2 wound back and forth over I-89, through all the little towns. There were yard sales everywhere, and the roads were filled with yard sale cruisers. I had to slam on the brakes several times when the cages in front of me made sudden stops at particularly inviting yard sales.

I stopped for lunch at a roadside business that offered ice cream, sandwiches, a full menu of cooked food, a convenience store and a gas station all in one stop. It was doing a brisk business. I bought a chicken salad sandwich, chips and coke, and sat on the porch to eat.

I chatted with a couple of Harley riders, who asked me if I'd ever been to Lincoln's Gap? I said no, where is it? Apparently it was a road somewhere nearby. These Harley riders thought it looked interesting, so they went up it. It started out paved, with nice twisties, but soon the pavement ended. They had continued on the gravel because the road was too narrow to turn around easily, and it had been several miles before the road came back down to paved roads again. They said it was beautiful up there but that the dirt road was only one narrow lane wide at the top, and it was sandy in places. They wouldn't ride there again! They asked me about my trip, and if I'd really come all the way from Michigan? I said I sure did. They asked if my bike was reliable, and I said it was. They said this was because of the name on the tank.

I rode on into Montpelier. In Montpelier I spotted another Honda dealer and decided to have another look for some highway pegs. Also, I was wishing for a tinted face shield; the sun was so bright. They had the highway pegs, but not the face shield. I put the pegs on right there in the parking lot. I watched a guy bring in a V45 Magna in the back of a truck; he was having the carbs cleaned so he could sell it.

Outside of town, the road ran next to a beautiful rocky river, but the pavement was terrible. As I approached the New Hampshire border, the nearby hills became smaller, but the distant ones looked larger. Some of the farthest ones even appeared to have snow at the top.

By the time I crossed the river into Lancaster, New Hampshire, it was starting to get hot. I was feeling sleepy, so when I saw the lovely tree shaded benches and parking spots on the main street, it seemed a perfect place to stop. I picked an empty bench under a tree, and pulled the bike up next to it. As I was parking the bike, an old lady sat down on the bench I had picked out. Rats. Well, the bench was big enough for two people, so I sat down next to her. She immediately started to talk. Before long, she'd told me about how she'd grown up in this area, but moved to New York City when she got old enough to work, because in those days the only jobs women could get around here were in restaurants, and she wanted to work in an office. She ended up working in the cafeteria for Western Union, and once she worked for a Jewish family whose daughter called her Deedee even though her name was Julie. She'd had so many different jobs, and it had been an interesting and full life! But now she was retired, and she'd moved back here. She said that it's much cheaper to live in Lancaster than it is to live in the city, and she gets more from social security every month than she ever earned when she was working. So life was pretty good here. Soon, she was off on a tangent about Nostradamus and predicting the future, and how some people thought the world would end when the year 2000 came. I said I figured there would probably be some major and minor inconveniences, but that I really doubted the world would end. After awhile, the conversation lapsed and I dozed for a little while. Julie sat next to me while I dozed for fifteen minutes or so, then waved goodbye to me as I got back on the road.

The road curved up into the hills. There were fewer yard sales here, but I was sharing the road with more tractor-trailer rigs and more RVs. Some were very slow, but I managed to dispatch them, one by one. The pavement was terrible. The terrain became more rugged and mountainous. I passed through small towns that made a poor living off the tourist trade. Lots of bedraggled looking antique shops, bait shops, and rundown motels. The trees got taller, and I saw more rocky streams. Somewhere near the Maine border I crossed the Appalachian Trail. It looked cool and inviting. I passed a car that had three pairs of alpine skis on the roof. Skis? There couldn't possibly be skiing here still, could there? If the skis on that car weren't rock skis, they would be soon, if their owners were skiing here this weekend.

I crossed the border into Maine. The wilderness continued. I passed a sign for the Sunday River ski area, and wondered if that was the skier's destination. I was starting to worry that I wouldn't get to Zimbob's before dark, so I didn't go exploring the ski area. I tried to pick up the pace, but except for a few stretches, the pavement was terrible, and I still had to contend with slow cages.

It was about this time that I started noticing a handling problem. There was a noticeable shimmy at a certain lean angle, right around 30mph. I experimented with it. With a little effort, I was easily able to find just the spot, and get the handlebars to vibrate back and forth. A little gas, a little brake, or a push on the bars would take them out of that harmonic frequency and back to a range where they were smooth. I decided that the problem was my front tire. With 16,000 miles on it, it wasn't surprising that a little handling quirk had surfaced. At least it still had plenty of tread depth; a blowout wasn't iminent. I made a mental note to stay out of the shimmy range.

I came to Rumford, a homely town nestled between high hills, next to a river. There was a huge factory next to the river. Route 2 took a circuitous path through town, a path which seemed design to run the traffic past as many of the town's businesses as possible, and which gave me a view of three sides of the factory. The air had a strange chemical tang to it. I wondered what on earth that factory was doing? (I later learned it was a paper mill.) After crossing the bridge and circling through the downtown business district, US 2 dove into a really nasty construction zone. Not only was there no pavement, there was hardly any gravel to speak of. The traffic was just driving over bare earth, and there were piles of gravel and sand everywhere. Yuck. It reminded me of my February visit to Tellico Plains. My bike was not happy about the soft surface, but fortunately it was only a short stretch. I finally made my escape from Rumford.

The mountains dwindled to hills, and the hills dwindled to rolling countryside that was strikingly similar to northern Michigan. The biggest difference was the moose crossing signs. I was afraid I would see a moose, and I was grateful for every mile I traveled without seeing one. As I reached the town of Skowhegan, it was starting to get dark. I debated whether to take time to get gas, or just keep going? I had enough gas to get to Zimbob's, but would I have enough to get out again? Where might the nearest gas station be? I decided I'd better get some gas here. I paid at the pump and timed myself, like I was training for the Iron Butt or something. I managed to get in and out of the gas station in three minutes. I found Route 150. I hoped that I wouldn't get lost out there in the dark, trying to find the fire road to Piper Pond.

In Abbot Village, I stopped to review the last part of the directions, and realized I was still wearing my sunglasses; that's why it seemed so dark. Dumbass! I took them off, and had a much easier time seeing. I identified the proper road out of Abbot Village, and set out. Not much farther now. An oncoming cage started flashing its headlights at me. Huh? Had my headlight bulb burned out? As I passed the cage, it pulled off onto the shoulder. I realized it must be a search party, and felt a moment's guilt for not calling, and leaving them to worry about me. I stopped. The cage turned around and came back. It turned out to be Zimjeff. He asked if I had gotten lost, and I said no, I was just being my usual tardy self. I followed him back to the house, and was grateful for the guidance, because I might have had trouble finding it on my own.

At the ZimPSR (Pond Side Resort), I was greeted by Zimbob, Zimlinda, and the indian giver son-in-law. The giant garage contained several motorcycles and no cages. The house has a beautiful view of Piper Pond. Piper Pond is what I would describe as a lake, but Zimbob insists it's a pond. He says that the difference between a lake and a pond is that a lake is fed by a river, and a pond is fed by a stream. My question was, then what's the difference between a stream and a river? He didn't seem to know.

We did the obligatory bike sniffing, then Zimlinda reheated some dinner for me while I regaled them with tales of my journey so far. She had just finished day one of the MSF class, and had tales to tell of that. I told of my own MSF experience. I learned that Zimbob's home away from home is Rumford, he is the engineer for the horrible construction zone I had passed through. He spends all week there, and comes home on weekends. What a drag that must be.

In the morning, Zimlinda had already left for her class. The indian giver son-in-law made an excellent breakfast, and then the three of us went out to the bikes. I was about to reposition my new highway pegs when another motorcycle rolled up. It was a couple on a Gold Wing; the pilot was someone Zimbob works with. They griped a bit about the state's unwillingness to assign them to projects close to home. A beautiful yellow and black butterfly fluttered up and landed on the ground in between them. It sat there, its delicate wings moving back and forth ever so slightly in the breeze. My attention drifted from the conversation around me, as I watched the butterfly. Finally I shook myself and went back in the garage to finish with the highway pegs. Soon the Gold Wing left. I loaded my luggage back on the bike. Zimbob and the indian giver son-in-law rode with me for about 50 miles. They rode conservatively, which suited me just fine. Soon we came to I-95, where we parted ways. I got on the expressway and headed south.

It was swelteringly hot! I stopped for a break at a gas station. I checked my tires, and bought a small bag of chips and a coke. I sat on the curb in the shade to eat. On the label of my coke, Maine was listed as one of the states that had bottle deposits. I went back inside and set the empty bottle on the counter and waited. The cashier stared at me as if I'd come from another planet. Hmm, they must do this differently here. I said, "I'm from Michigan. Please tell me how your bottle deposits work?" He told me that he didn't take bottle returns at his store, that I had to take the bottle to a redemption center. Ah, that explains it! In Michigan, all carbonated beverages have bottle deposits, and any store that sells them is also required to redeem the empties. I learned from this cashier that in their part of the country, the stores don't redeem empty bottles, you actually have to go to a special place to return them. That's probably what that cashier back in Vermont had meant, when I asked her about bottle deposits. No wonder I had seen bottles littering the ground, even though the labels said they were deposit bottles. They've got a deposit law but it's too inconvenient, so it doesn't reduce littering the way the Michigan law does.

Zimbob had suggested that I take the slab about halfway to Tony's, and then strike west across to Manchester. This had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as I rode down I-95 I was seized with a sudden desire to see the Atlantic. I didn't want to get to Tony's quite so late, so I decided to slab it all, except for a detour to see the ocean. North of Portland, the map showed I-95 coming very close to the water. I decided to leave the slab there and find my way to the sea. Unfortunately I never did get a good view of it. Everywhere I went, the shore was completely obscured by condos, shops, restaurants, cheesy tourist traps, and traffic. I got a few glimpses occasionally, but it wasn't worth the aggravation of fighting the traffic. I gave up and went back to the expressway.

I passed a sign that said, "If your business was in Maine, you'd be home right now." Then I crossed a big bridge over a river and I was in New Hampshire. I slabbed it on over to Manchester, by way of Route 101, which was a big construction area. I stopped about ten miles outside of Manchester to compare Tony's directions to my map. Tony's directions started with roads I could find on my map, like 101 and I-293, and landmarks that were listed on the map, like the airport. The problem was, they didn't agree. The directions said to go east past the airport to the place where 101 and 114 split off from each other. The map showed something like this west of the airport, but I couldn't even find 114 anywhere east of the airport. I got out my cell phone and called Tony for clarification, and to warn him of my imminent arrival, but no one answered the phone. I decided I'd try to find the place anyways, since I didn't have anything else to do in the area. I mentally changed the one word, "east", in the directions, to a "west", which was the only way I could see to make sense of it. I was heartened considerably when I started passing landmarks listed in the directions.

Soon I came to Tony's street. It was a neighborhood of fine houses on large, forested lots. Many of the houses were not visible from the road. The directions said that it was the third driveway on the left, and that he'd put an orange cone out for easy identification. I counted driveways, one, two, three. No orange cone. Uh-oh. Did I miss a driveway? Should I change the word "left" to "right"? The street looked like it would circle around, so I decided to ride all the way around and look for orange cones. If I didn't find one, I'd ride up that third driveway and see. I circled around, and when I came back to that driveway, a man came out and waved to me. It was Malcolm the Fringe Kid. Tony hadn't seen the message I sent Thursday, and he hadn't expected me, so he hadn't put the orange cone out. But when I circled the subdivision, they had recognized the distinctive sound of the V65 engine, and Malcolm had come down to wave me in.

Here are my initial impressions. Tony is not a big guy, but what he lacks in stature he makes up for in sheer energy and force of personality. I swear he was in three places at once. Carmel is less hyper than Tony, but she has an inner steel that makes her more than a match for him. Malcolm thinks well of everyone, it's very charming. Joel is calmer, though not shy or silent; he seems a bit more introspective. The things they all have in common, are an excellent sense of humor and a taste for gossip. I fit right in. We were all interested in what the others could tell us of listers we hadn't met yet, and the tales flew thick and fast.

Then there were the dogs. Carmel has two german shepherds, and they don't get along. Joel called them the psycho killers, and hummed the Talking Heads song. Carmel had had to take one of the dogs to the emergency vet the day before, for bite wounds incurred in a dog fight. The dogs were disobedient; they definitely had their own agenda for the evening. For some reason they seemed to like me; the fluffy one kept sneaking up behind me and nudging me from behind with her cold nose. I thought it was cats that always took a shine to the visitor who doesn't like cats? I don't have a huge problem with dogs, but I'm not a dog person and having the one sneaking up behind and nosing at me was disconcerting.

Even though they hadn't expected me, they fed me a marvelous dinner. Carmel asked me where I was staying, and I said I would camp. She said "Nonsense. You'll stay here." I wasn't going to argue. I doubt I'd have prevailed if I had. They gave me a beautiful, huge bedroom to sleep in; it was as big as some apartments I've seen and it had several skylights. It was also very private, far from the rest of the bedrooms, so I didn't have to fear waking people up in the night with my snoring.

After dinner we messed with the bikes some more. Tony was happy that I had brought a Sabre within his reach; he had acquired some Sabre foot pegs from somewhere and he was trying to figure out how to mount them on his Magna. My bike provided him with a perfect opportunity to take measurements and work on his plans. I got to see the 99% Chrome Magna; it was absolutely gorgeous, with the perfect shade of red paint on the gas tank and fairing, and some custom V65 Magna symbols that were perfectly colored and proportioned, yet understated. I wouldn't dream of asking for a test ride on it; I'd be so afraid of scratching the bike that I'd hate every second I was on it. Malcolm and Joel both had much more ordinary V45 Magnas, which would have been hard for me to tell apart, except that Malcolm was putting fringes on his brake levers. All three of these bikes were clean and polished. My Sabre looked like a stepchild in that garage. Sabre ugliness, plus dirt, scratches, duct taped turn signal stalks, and hundreds of bug corpses. Just looking at my bike sent these guys running for polishing cloths, not to polish the Sabre, but to polish their own bikes as a talisman against any of the Sabre ugliness rubbing off.

Malcolm was talking about how he could get more fringe onto his bike, and I had an idea. I turned my coat over, and pulled the two remaining conches and their accompanying tassels off the back. I tied them onto the back of Malcolm's fender. He was thrilled. I told him he could keep them; they get tangled in my hair anyways. He said he wanted a fringed jacket, but couldn't find one large enough. I had him try mine. It fit him better than it fit me. Not surprising, considering I have to buy such things in menswear sizes, to get long enough sleeves. I don't know where he shops, but I've seen plenty of fringed jackets as large or larger.

Joel was the butt of much teasing that evening. Apparently, before I arrived, they had spent two hours searching for a missing fork spacer, and finally found it in the fork. Joel had insisted it wasn't in there. They also dropped Joel's exhaust to see why it was so loud, and found that there were gaskets missing. Joel insisted he had put gaskets in when he assembled it. Another fork spacer went missing, and was found in the bathroom. Joel denied putting it there. Later, after razzing Joel mercilessly for hours, Malcolm admitted to hiding it in there as a joke. I don't know if it was Tony or Malcolm who came up with the nickname, "Spacer Cadet."

When the wrenching was done, Tony suggested we go in and have a beer. I said, "Or we could go riding. Unless you guys have already started on those beers?" No one had had any beers since well before dinner, several hours ago, so we suited up and went. We stopped to get gas in a small town nearby, and something about the angle of the light and small town atmosphere made me long for ice cream. It was too hard to communicate that to the others, so I let it go. Joel led us on a thirty mile circle of the local twisties. This was hard on me, because the speed we were traveling and the curvature of the road kept taking me right into the range of that front tire shimmy. I dropped behind a bit, and compensated by accelerating and braking a little more than the others.

Tony, Joel, and Malcolm's bikes were easier for me to tell apart in the dark, than most bikes are. Malcolm has one of those things that makes the brake lights flash. And Tony's bike can be heard a mile away. Not the pipes, the speakers. Sheesh, "Dancing Queen?" Nothing like being chased by Abba. Remember, "Loud Speakers Save Lives."

As we came back to the house, we passed an area where people were stopped all along the side of the road, looking out from a hilltop, towards town, like they expected to see fireworks or something. Indeed, that turned out to be what was about to happen. We pulled into the garage, and as I was taking off my helmet, Tony said, "Would anyone like some ice cream?" A mind reader! We got back on the bikes, and Tony led us for miles, onto the expressway and over to the far side of Manchester, where we exited on a road that went straight towards the fireworks. They were so close and so spectacular that I was afraid we'd be rear-ended by a distracted cager. We pulled into the parking lot of an ice cream shop and parked the bikes. Malcolm and I walked back out and across the street, just in time to see the finale. I said, "Gee, I've heard of people seeing fireworks while kissing, but I never knew you could get that effect from motorcycle riding!"

The others proceeded to argue about where we were, and why Tony had led us to such a distant ice cream shop, etc, etc. I didn't care; I was having a great time. We ate our ice cream as the post-fireworks traffic jam crept past out on the street. Then we rode back to the house, and Tony and Carmel repeated the argument over why on earth Tony led us all the way over there. It was pretty comical.

Joel complained that I kept pouring on that V65 power and leaving him to struggle; I would slow down when I was not sure where to go, and then I'd crank it wide open to catch up or merge. He had been staying behind me to make sure I didn't get lost, and I was hard for him to follow. I apologized, said it wasn't intentional. I had been disoriented, trying to keep up and trying not to get hit by a cage, and my delta vee had been the last thing on my mind.

Joel and I both spent the night at Tony and Carmel's. Malcolm had to leave; he has sleep apnea and he needs his special breathing stuff at night. The rest of us sat around and chatted until the wee hours.

The next morning when I got up, I noticed that the bedroom I was in had a table with thousands of Magic cards. I went downstairs and asked, "OK, who's addicted to cardboard crack?" Carmel and Tony stared at me, dumfounded. Apparently they never heard this terminology before. I explained that I was speaking of Magic The Gathering. The Magic cards belonged to Tony. I said to Carmel, "The first hit is always free, you know. I'm sure he's offered to give you a starter deck." He had. She laughed. We hung around in the kitchen. With much kibitzing from Carmel, Tony attempted to make an omelet for Joel. I don't usually like to eat until I've been up for awhile, but I drank a Pepsi and eventually I ate a muffin.

Out in the garage, Tony helped me track down a rattle on my bike. Joel put his windshield back on while Tony polished my windshield. Tony gave me some parts for my starter clutch, and a replacement for a bolt that had gotten lost. Joel was going to ride with me for an hour or so, since his house was somewhere west of Tony's. We stopped for gas at the same place we'd stopped the night before, and then we switched bikes, because he wanted to try my V65 Sabre. I rode his V45 Magna. I didn't much like it. One of my hips started hurting in the gas station driveway; sitting with my feet on the ground hurt. Once we were moving it didn't hurt anymore, but it was still very cramped. The top of the windshield was only inches from my face. I don't know how Joel can ride that bike; he's taller than I am! Ergos aside, though, it was a nice running little bike, and the low seat height is confidence inspiring. It would be an excellent bike for someone who wasn't as tall. I did experience the inability of the V45 to keep up when the V65 rider unthinkingly accelerates. Or maybe Joel was just getting even.

We rode to Joel's house, where we stopped to drink water and say hello to his family. They had been camping for the holiday weekend, and they were seriously wilted from the heat. I suggested to Joel that maybe he'd like to get lunch before I got on the tollway, and he led the way to a pizza parlor. We talked about his children, and my family, and the crazy stuff we did when we were teenagers. After lunch, we rode a short distance, he gave me directions to the Mass Pike, and we parted ways.

It was almost 3pm by the time I got to the Mass Pike. I decided I'd better haul ass if I was going to get home that night. I picked a cruising speed, fast, but not so fast that a few cages didn't still pass me. Traffic was moving pretty well, and my direction of travel was opposite the holiday weekend rush back to Boston. I roared west for an hour or two. I've always thought of Boston when I thought of Massachusetts, but western Massachusetts actually has a rugged beauty, with hills and forests and wide rivers to cross. Soon I overtook a V65 Magna. I decided that was a sign that I should slow down. I matched the Magna's pace for almost an hour before I exited to get gas at a service plaza near the New York border. The Magna rider waved as he continued on. I timed myself, it was another three-minute gas stop. When I don't have to take off my helmet, I can get gas pretty quick. As I left the gas station, I matched pace with a BMW. The BMW rider liked the same kind of cruising speed I did, and we leapfrogged for the next fifty or sixty miles, until he turned off outside of Albany. I rode west in the lengthening shadows.

About an hour later, I saw two skydivers, off to the north. They were very beautiful in the slanting evening light. Soon I started to get a little cold, as the sun sank lower. I decided it was time to stop, put on long pants (I had been wearing shorts under my chaps) and get something to drink. I pulled a side cover and brought the plug back out for my electric jacket. If I needed it once it got dark, I'd be glad I found the plug while it was still light. I dug out my Ontario map and folded it so I could see the less familiar stretch from Buffalo to the 401. As I was doing this, a couple pulled up next to me on a Virago 1100. We chatted for a little while about how beautiful the day was, and how far we had to travel that day. I spoke of my riding friends from the internet, and they spoke of the christian motorcycle club they belonged to. I carefully veered away from that subject; I liked having someone to talk to at this rest stop, but I didn't need any preaching. They didn't pursue it, whew. We decided to ride together for a little while. That was fun. I like traveling alone, but it's nice to hook up with some short-haul riding companions, too.

I passed Le Roy, NY, the Home of Jell-O. I smiled to myself, thinking of my coworker, Paula, whose mother lives in Le Roy, and who, whenever she visits her mother, will say that she's headed for the Home of Jell-O.

About ten minutes outside of Buffalo, a few raindrops spattered on my face shield, but before I could decide whether to put on my rain gear, it stopped raining. Whew! Rain would not be fun. The attendant at the tollbooth was very nice; he asked where I was headed, and told me the exit number for the bridge to Canada.

It was past midnight as I pulled up to the border. The guard came out of her booth to see my license plate number.
"What's your citizenship?"
"U.S."
"What's your purpose in Canada tonight?"
"I'm on my way to Michigan."
"Do you have any weapons?"
"No."
"Guns?"
Shudder. "No way!" (Do I look crazy, that I'd carry guns into Canada? Sheesh!)
"Go ahead."

For the next four miles, I passed two lanes of oncoming trucks that were queued up to cross into the U.S.A. Either the border was being exceptionally thorough in their inspections that night, or they were very busy. Poor truckers; they don't get paid when they're waiting in line like that, and at the rate that line was moving, they'd be there for hours.

Ten minutes later I rode into the rain. Icky. There was nothing I could do, I had to get home that night. I stopped to put on my raincoat, then kept going. It continued to rain on me, all the way home. Visibility was terrible; I slowed to well under the 100 kph speed limit, and slogged along through. I thought about stopping for dinner, but I knew if I stopped, I'd never be able to bring myself to get back out in the rain. I was alone with the trucks; I hardly saw a cage anywhere as I rode the last leg home. Outside of St. Thomas, I had a bit of a scare as I approached an empty gas tank, and the only gas stations open were the ones at the service plazas. I was running on fumes as I pulled into that plaza; I was able to put almost 20 liters in the tank. I was glad to be making my last gas stop of the trip.

The Ambassador bridge was filled with trucks. There were people in yellow rain slickers directing the few non-truck travelers into the left oncoming lane, around the giant truck queue. There was only one booth open on the non-truck side. The bored guard simply asked my citizenship and waved me through.

Outside of Dearborn, some red highway flares loomed on the right hand side of the road. I wondered if there was a stalled truck up there in the rainy dark somewhere? I must have passed fifty flares; what on earth was going on? Soon, I overtook a truck that was driving along slowly in the right lane, tossing flares out every thirty seconds or so. Ahead of the truck was a whole herd of street sweepers, maybe a dozen of them. I wondered if there was another truck somewhere back there, picking up the spent carcasses of the flares?

I finally pulled into my own driveway, and into my garage. I was glad to ride into the garage and finally get out of the rain! I parked the bike, got off, and pulled off my helmet. The pre-dawn bird symphony was in full swing. I knew I'd never be able to function at work if I went in on time. I couldn't remember which of my coworkers were taking vacations that day, and who might be there to receive a message. So when I called my office, I left a message on the technical support voice mail. I told them that I'd just gotten home, and that I'd be in late, probably around ten thirty. I left my wet gear on the floor, and fell into bed. Apparently my voice mail caused quite a stir at the office; several people came by to tease me about it. The time stamp on the message was 4:58 AM.

Total trip distance was around 2300 miles. On the last leg, I traveled more than 800 miles between the time I left Joel and the time I rolled into my garage. While I was glad to stop and get out of the rain, I could have kept going pretty easily. I wasn't the least bit sore the next day, just sleepy. I'll have to do a Saddlesore 1000 sometime soon; if I actually start in the morning I should be able to do it without much difficulty. Apart from the handling problem that surfaced on the trip out, I had no problem with my tires, but I'm not going anywhere else until I replace them. I have no complaints about the Avon Roadrunners; that front tire now has over 17,000 miles, so the handling problem is not unexpected. I'm planning to try the D205 radials next.

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